Stroke
by Twilight Hours
Summary: Dean knows it's too late to quit, wouldn't do it anyway, but come on. It's 120 degrees from 7 AM to 8 PM, for God sakes.


Not mine!

* * *

It isn't that big a deal. The case, that is. It's really not that much of a deal. The only problem is, they don't know how to _deal _with it.

Not the case. They've got that covered. At least, _he_ thinks so. Just a couple of ghosts causing a racket for the neighbors, nothing a minor banishing ritual can't cover. A child could do it. (At least, _he_ thinks so.) And they really don't need to be spending more time than they need to out here, now that they've finished researching. _Jesus_, they did a lot of researching. Most of the time spent was on looking up local lore and legends, pacing in the motel or pacing in the library. He had done the pacing, of course. He's impatient. And it's not like he can help it— Dean isn't made for research. So, naturally, he had left his geek brother to it after wearing a few trails in the carpet, and went driving. Well, he did the first few times. Sometimes he had stayed out a little too long, chatting up locals or browsing unique souvenir shops, and Sam had ended up walking back to the motel.

After the third time of this occurrence, he had stopped ditching Sam. Because it isn't that much fun having your little brother walking a few blocks and getting to their room and dripping sweat everywhere and stinking up the room with said sweat. That, added to Sam being too worn out to even glare at him after these incidents, equaled a nicer and more patient Dean. (On the outside.) Because even Dean knows it's gone too far when your brother is physically unable to complain. And besides, he doesn't like smelly motel rooms.

And _that, _they don't know how to deal with. The heat. It's not like they haven't been hot before, but they rarely ever go to seriously _hot _places. Dean likes to think it's because monsters don't like heat either; they'd stink worse than usual if they were sweating all the time. He equated it to a sweaty, smelly Sam. (He shares this with Sam, and earns a slap in the ribs for it. Sensitive bitch.)

Apparently spirits don't get that memo, though, because there are a ton of them in Arizona. There aren't a lot of particularly nasty ones here, they find out, not even many poltergeists that they know of so far. (Probably because of the heat.) But there are loud ones, and since someone has to handle them and since _all _the other goddamn stubborn hunters seem to avoid Arizona, he and Sam land here.

Honestly, Dean was considering skipping over this hunt as well. He had graciously stated this several times to Sam after they had checked in. Cheap motels often had them fighting over the shower, but very rarely do they fight over _cold_ water. A place that runs out of cold water— that's just _wrong_.

Sam hadn't listened, of course. (He still isn't listening.) Dean knows it's too late to quit, wouldn't do it anyway, but come on. It's 120 degrees from 7 AM to 8 PM, for God sakes. And they both barely even know how _not_ todress in layers. Dean may be the complainer out of the two, but he knows his brother has a harder time with the heat than he does. (He could never handle it well— Dean had asked Sam before how he could stand California for four years, and Sam had reminded Dean that he did in fact have air conditioning, and he spent most of his time indoors, going from his classes to the library to his dorm room. Dean often wonders if Sam never actually went to the beach during that time as well, but that would be asking too much.)

Sam, the goody two-shoes, insists that if the problem isn't taken care of now, it'll _escalate. _Something might set them off and they'll become more violent, perhaps even form into poltergeists, perhaps even step off their haunting grounds. (A bunch of what-ifs and improbable probabilities.)

_Escalate_— who uses that word?

But he has a point, however small. And Dean can't deny it. (Well, he can. But you know.)

Nevertheless, the heat is not the only reason Dean's reluctant to be in Arizona (although it's a pretty damn good reason). Sam's antsy here. Dean can see the fidgeting hands, the slightly-more-panicky-than-normal roaming eyes that never seem to settle on anything for more than two seconds. The slight restlessness— something that may be Dean's signature, but isn't quite right on Sam. And it's not that hard to notice when Sam eats less, sleeps less. It's all minuscule, he expects Sam doesn't even notice it, but it's there.

Dean can take a guess why: Arizona is too close to California— anywhere in the west is too close. It's late July (and even hearing the name of that month rips a cuss out of his mouth in this goddamn state), almost a year since Jessica and Stanford were torn from his brother. Sam is still grieving. And he won't talk to Dean about it. (He's tried, of course, to get his brother to open up, but that always ends with either Sam bringing up the no chick-flick rule or saying "You want me to talk about Stanford?" which always makes Dean reconsider his counseling attempts.)

But they can't dwell on it, not during a job. He can only feel guilty. Can only keep an eye out for his brother and distract them both with complaining and the case— one of which he's better at.

"I don't get why we have to do this during the day." It's like 190 degrees and it's only a little before one in the afternoon, and what the hell, he shouldn't have to try this hard to get words out of his mouth, shouldn't have to try this hard to _think_.

"It would be impossible to find the borders to the grounds in the dark, Dean," Sam reminds him none too sweetly, sitting in the passenger's seat, "Besides, if you hadn't taken so long to get ready, we could've done this earlier."

"Maybe if you had woken me up earlier," he retorts, because it's always Sam's fault.

"I did. You went back to sleep."

Dean doesn't remember that. "It's still your fault."

"Whatever." Moody priss. Dean shifts his grip on the wheel (more like it slips, the sweat has slicked the leather and the texture is very uncomfortable), thinks back on the diner they rushed through before setting out, the steaming sausages and bacon and eggs and the cute waitress with the cropped plaid shirt and the lone cup of coffee sitting cold in front of his brother.

"Why don't you go over what we know, again," Dean changes the subject bluntly, staring ahead at the interstate. "I know how much you love talking about geeky stuff."

"Go over what _I _know, you mean. And there isn't much that's relevant to the case, actually. Residents in Winslow and various drivers claimed to hear gunshots and cries all throughout the day, but never saw anything anywhere. There's a protected area a bit away from the town; one of the battlegrounds of an old fight between Native Americans and settlers. There are still bullet casings lying around, and no one's allowed to step foot in the area. The rounded corners of the grounds are approximately two miles apart, so." Sam keeps talking, but Dean sorta tunes him out at this point. His job is only to distract Sam from thinking about anything depressing, which is hard enough as it is. He doesn't actually have to _listen._

"Right, so," he inhales sharply, having waited politely for Sam to finish rambling, "all we gotta do is set the banishing bags down on each corner, and we're good."

"Yeah," Sam puffs, turns around and bends over the seat to search through his duffle, his bony hip somehow coming dangerously close to Dean's cheek. He bends back around after a minute or two with the four bags now in his lap. "We're good."

The wind whips Sam's hair around, smacking him occasionally in the forehead. It's still freaking hot, but Dean's driving at 85 mph now with all the windows down, so it's tolerable. Each bead of sweat sprouting up from his pores is dried and cools almost instantly. Sam still manages to stay slightly glistening, but he doesn't look too bothered. (While Dean has always been the hotter of the two, Sam's always been the sweatier.) Dean doesn't think the AC has worked since they hit Page at the tip of the state coming in; it just blasts smoldering air now. Goddamn Arizona, with its goddamn heat.

Winslow is a mundane town, and the time they had passed there included mundane talks with mundane witnesses. They probably hadn't needed to do so much research, because they hadn't found much outside what was in the papers, but they wanted to be thorough.

The hunt in question is a handful of miles southwest from the town. And Winslow, their only major lead, is also the only major town anywhere near the haunting grounds. Unfortunately, motel rates in Winslow were unnaturally high (probably because there was only one motel) so they had both settled to stay in the next town over, and room in Winslow on the day of the hunt.

Dean had spent one of the first research days driving over to Winslow anyway to check out The Corner. Because Sam had said they would sleep as soon as they check in, and go straight to the haunting in the morning. Then they would check out before they have to pay extra, and get the hell outta the state. But _you can't just drive past a national monument_, seriously. Especially since it was made famous by The Eagles— (how is Sam not getting that?) And since Dean is never stepping foot in Arizona again after this hunt, this is a once in a lifetime opportunity. It's past his comprehension why his own brother can't appreciate good freaking music, so he had decided to relieve his boredom while Sam researched and check it out. And despite leaving Sam for a handful of hours, he hadn't regretted it. Better than staying another day in this _goddamn_ state with its_ goddamn_ heat—

"Dean-" Sam derails his train of thought abruptly with a near shout and it almost causes him to swerve, Jesus, "-stop. I think this is it."

And he stops, with a shower of rocks and dirt spraying up from the wheels as he pulls off of the road, but he doesn't see anything. There's nothing special to mark this place, just some small hills and a dust-covered sign laying half on the ground and a knee-high mesh fence. It looks like the last 20 miles they've driven through and the next 150 miles Dean can see wavering in front of him, just, almost flat, bush-covered land that goes on forever. He can't see how anyone would battle out in this, centuries ago or not.

Sam seems pretty sure, though, judging by how he's out of the car before Dean even keys the engine off and asks how in hell he's so sure. He turns around to watch Sam open the back door, grabbing his duffle.

"How in hell are you so sure?"

His brother looks up at him for a split second before taking more things out of the bag. "The sign, Dean," he says.

—Like it's obvious. Dean gets out and walks over to the sign, which is in seriously bad condition. He wipes off some of the dust with his hand and squints his eyes at the extremely faded words that say something along the lines of _Protec ed Ar a Do Not Tres pa. _

"The trunk, Dean," Sam calls behind him, and Dean frowns. He would ask, but he knows better not to question how Sam thinks anymore.

He moves over to where his brother is and unlocks the trunk, letting Sam lift it up with a huff. The duffle is around his shoulder; Dean's guessing he gave up trying to take out what he wanted to bring and decided to take the whole thing with him. Sam grabs two canisters of salt, hands one to him, and notices Dean's still looking at him.

"What?"

"Nothin'. You okay?" He asks, because it's habit, the question always on the tip of his tongue, and he doesn't think he's asked it in a while but from the way Sam's looking he had probably asked two minutes ago and just forgot.

"Yeah, I'm fine. You?"

"Yeah, yeah," he responds, still looking at Sam. The kid looks bad, actually, and not because of the usual. He's been out of the car for less than five minutes, and already his face is red and damp, with huge sweat stains under his arms and all around his neck and back. Dean probably looks no better, but he doesn't _feel _that bad. (Yet.) Sam's breathing seems a little strained as well, but that's understandable in this heat. "You look pretty hot, though."

"Thanks," Sam replies with a grin, closing the trunk and leaving Dean scowling. Trust his sweaty, stinky brother to be a brat as well.

"You know what I meant," he mutters darkly, but opens the trunk again and takes some water bottles out of the tiny cooler they have. Two for him, two for Sam. He sticks a pair in Sam's duffle, earning a soft grunt of thanks, then occupies his hands with a bottle each, savoring the chill against his palms.

Sam hikes his bag further up his shoulder. "You ready?"

"As much as I'm going to be," he frowns. It's getting hotter just standing, and he can feel the heat emanating from the Impala. Sam pulls a small shovel out of his pack and gives it to him, and he hangs it through one of his belt loops.

"Okay," Sam ignores his comment, "so you can go to the west corners, and I'll take the eastern ones-"

"What, no," Dean bristles, squinting out at the grounds, and takes note of the shine coming off half-buried bullet casings littered all along the hills. "I'll take the east corners."

The eastern ones are placed on one side of the hills, Dean assumes, and the small amount of wind on top of the plateau they're on is going west. Which means the western corners are cut off from the wind by the hills, wind which will likely pick up as the day progresses, and that makes all the difference.

"Why do you get them?"

"Do you really have to ask? Same reason I get everything I want, Sammy. I'm older. You can handle four miles, can't you?"

"Yeah, but I— whatever," Sam glares at him, but it's way too hot for them to put forth the effort to have an actual argument about this. Dean wins by default. "Since I'm finishing the ritual, I'll be a few minutes behind you on the way back. Just. Wait at the car for me." He wipes at his forehead, keeping his eyes shut a second longer than a blink.

That's right— Sam had said something about there being more to the ritual, a chant and another part that would require herbs and holy water and spices. Dean feels a little regret that he's letting Sam do all the work, but it disappears once he looks back out at the watery horizon. There's not enough room in the heat for much guilt, just regret over taking this damn hunt in the first place. Sam seems fine, anyway, just sweaty, and he can handle it.

"Right. You can, uh, call me when you're done then," he stuffs the water bottles in his pockets (which feels awesome, like icy bliss on his thighs) and saunters over to the driver's side, contemplating if he should risk leaving the windows down with his car just on the side of the road. Driving it to each corner is out of the question, as that'd no doubt get his baby dirty and scratched up. He really wishes they had quads right now.

"Reception's dead out here, I already checked. You ready?" Sam repeats his question from earlier, looking pissed and impatient and completely calm all at once. His hair's getting all drippy and stringy again.

Dean grabs the cheap sunglasses from the dash and picks up his salt canister. He's got a slightly bad feeling about this, but, no, it's probably just the heat. Goddamn Arizona— "As much as I'm going to be," he groans out, feeling slightly repetitive. "Let's just get this over with."

That's the last thing they say before heading off in opposite directions, trailing the tiny fence that subtly curves away from the road.

He looks back after about five minutes of walking, and Sam is a liquid blur against the glaring sky.

Dean reaches his first corner, and he doesn't feel bad at all. The wind has picked up, and it's not incredibly strong yet, but it's not the sticky humid type of breeze either, and the air current feels good when it blows through his sweat-soaked shirt and hair. He pulls out his shovel and, estimating the exact location of the corner, and starts to dig.

Two things happen just as Dean uplifts the first clod of dirt: it gets almost imperceptibly colder, and he hears a gunshot.

He jerks his head up, his neck popping in protest, and he sees— on top of the nearest mound— a cowboy. It's barely visible, just a translucent image, and from what he can make out the clothes are heavily outdated, older than the getup he sees in John Wayne movies.

The apparition flickers once or twice, then turns towards him. He stills, keeping his crouch with the shovel frozen against his knee. He nearly falls over when another ghost appears almost right in front of him; it's an Indian, this time, facing away from him with a dirty and bloodstained back. It's almost like being in a movie, Dean thinks, and it's really cliché. He stares through the man at the soldier on top of the hill, watches it raise the gun in its hand, right at the Indian and right at him. There's a second where no one moves, and everything is dead silent.

He covers his face with his hands out of reflex, scrunches his eyes shut, and the gun fires.

He flinches— what if the ghost disappeared right before the gun went off, what if the bullet just when right through it? But he realizes after thinking these things that, well, he's still thinking, and not yelling out in agony or anything.

He looks up, and the spirits are gone.

Which, okay, weird, but Dean'll take what he can get. They're probably just reacting to the slight disturbance right outside their haunting grounds, probably don't even realize what's going to happen, but Dean shifts the salt closer to him. He can't deal with stuff out of range, so he's hoping they're only violent towards each other. (God, he hopes so, or they're both screwed.) He continues to dig, and nothing else pops up by the time he's finished burying the mojo bag, so he figures it'll just be a really uneventful hunt or they're bothering Sam on the other side of the hills. He cherishes the quiet and puts a circle of salt around the covered bag.

By the time he reaches the second corner, he's much more worse for wear. And, what is it now, like, 220 degrees? Jesus _Christ_. The air around him is literally baking— he can hear it sizzle right next to his ears. He's almost done with his first bottle of water, though both of them are long from cold. His shirt is so disgusting he doesn't want to think about it, let alone smell it. He's almost ready to just collapse into the dirt when he sees it, that slight curve of the fence, how it progressively turns to the west, and it's like a gift sent from Heaven.

He doesn't waste time burying the second mojo bag and laying a line of salt around it, mainly because the sooner he's done the sooner he can get back to the car. But it's also because he doesn't want to keep Sam waiting or make him screw up— not like he knows when Dean will finish, but they had agreed to go at the same pace, and Sam had probably gone a little slower just to make sure, seeing as the ritual most likely required the chanting and whatnot _after_ the bags were buried. It's been a little under an hour since they had set out, Dean approximates.

Once he finishes with the salt circle, the air stops its crackling and shifts to the side, and it gets cooler than the last time— but still not that cold. Dean looks up, and sees not just one pair of fighters, but several. He doesn't bother to stay still; he starts walking back, away from the fence, salt in hand. The Indians and cowboys don't seem to notice him, however, they're just standing there, which is freaking him out a little.

He must be about half way to the first corner when they finally do something, and there's a lot more of them, just like an army. They suddenly spring into action, firing guns and arrows and shouts at each other. Dean's not entirely sure out to react to it, since he's not the one being fired at, but watching a ghost battle is more than unnerving when you're standing not ten feet from some of the fighters. He can't help but flinch again when another gun fires a little too close.

It goes on for what seems like ages, judging by Dean's sluggish pace. He thinks maybe another half hour passes before he reaches the first corner, finds the salt undisturbed, chugs his second water bottle, and then they change.

He doesn't notice at first— it's just a flicker from one or two spirits, and they slow their actions just a little, like someone's got them on a really fast slow-motion. He thinks it's just the heat getting to him.

Dean reaches the Impala, opens the trunk lid before they do anything else. Pulling another water bottle from the ice chest and moving to the front of the Impala, he watches them warily as they slow down even more. Then every single one disappears at once, for half a second, and when they come back they're all completely frozen, and all facing west.

Sam must be starting the last part of the ritual.

Dean nearly spills the water, he's so startled at the scene. Though it's obvious they're not hurting Sam, they can't, they're just watching, it's seriously disconcerting. He wonders how Sam feels having an audience of apparitions.

Sam had said the ritual would only take a few minutes, but it drags on and on and Dean doesn't think it'll ever end. (Sam said as well that he'd only be a few minutes behind him, but if he's just starting now, it'll take about an hour to get back. Shit.)

He can't just sit on the steaming car hood, so he goes back around to the cooler. It had been half full of ice chips, though now it's almost all melted. The water is cool, however, and Dean takes the time to peel his shirt off and wring some of the sweat out of it before dipping it in the water-filled box. He pulls it back on, savoring the slap of freeze against his flesh. Sam might not approve, but what he doesn't know won't hurt him.

He lays down in the front seat right after the spirits draw in one collective breath and disappear for probably the last time. He doesn't care about the leather right now, he's exhausted; he considers turning the radio on just to keep awake. The desert, he thinks, is the perfect place for slow and swelling melodies. Johnny Cash. Tarbox Ramblers. Heck, even The National. A baritone voice, drifting in and out like hot gusts of air, while a vulture circles above, _dust to dust_...

He wakes up with a start. _What the hell_ and _it's hot _are the first two things that come into his mind. Then, _Sam. _He couldn't have been out that long, but he swears the sun must've shifted over at least an inch. He checks his phone for the time, then curses when he realizes it's overheated and refuses to turn on. Not like it would do any use, since he didn't check when he got back to the car in the first place.

But once he's out of the car and has his shirt dipped in the ice chest water again, the time no longer matters. There's Sam, a blurry blob making his way back.

"Sammy," he calls out, raising a hand, and starts walking towards him. Apparently it's not loud enough, because Sam doesn't seem to acknowledge it. Or Dean at all, for that matter. In fact, Dean's close enough now to see him stop and turn unsteadily halfway back the way he came.

"Sam?" Crap. He jogs over to his brother, panic making his heart leap and his pace rush.

Before he gets there, Sam turns back to him and sort of... trips. He's completely down right as Dean reaches him, not making any noise. Surprisingly his duffle is still with him, so Dean takes it. He grabs hold of Sam's shoulder, places a hand on his back, and almost immediately takes his hands away again.

Sam's shirt is drenched. His _jeans _are drenched. It smells revolting, like Sam pissed himself. His hair is what it looks like after he steps out of the shower— thin little strands, some plastered to his skin, not wet enough to drip but pretty damp. His skin looks burnt, harsh red marring every piece of Sam that Dean can see. Neck, arms, face, even his hands.

Dean's patting Sam down, looking for injuries, when he finally notices that his skin is mostly dry. There are spots moist from his hair and t-shirt, but there aren't any beads of sweat running down his face, no drops sprouting from overheated pores. Sam isn't sweating. Sam isn't sweating. Sam isn't—

Sam makes some unintelligible sound, turning his head up to peer at Dean. The expression on his scarlet face is a mixture of confused, panicked, and pissed off.

"Dean." _Sam isn't sweating. _

"Yeah, Sam," Dean replies, and he also notices Sam is panting like a dog, uneven staccatos of breaths. They sound a strain away from forced, and when he stops breathing once, it looks like he has trouble starting again.

He puts his fingers to Sam's neck, intending on feeling his pulse, but Sam's pushing against him, against the ground, standing back up. He sways once, and Dean gets up to support him, putting a steadying hand against his brother's chest, feeling a faint pounding from the other side of the soaked fabric.

Sam's heartbeat is like a rabbit's. Sam's having difficulty breathing. Sam isn't sweating.

Sam has— Sam has heatstroke. Oh, shit, _shit. _

"Sam," he starts, pushing them gently towards the Impala, "we gotta go."

"Where's the car," Sam wheezes.

"Uh." Dean's too occupied trying to get Sam to walk in a straight line to totally focus on what's coming out of his brother's mouth, but he grimaces once it registers. "A few feet away."

He gets Sam to the passenger side and lets go for a second to open the door when Sam bends over and starts retching. Not much comes out, either because he never had much in his system anyway or he threw up earlier.

"Oh, Sammy..." He throws the bag over the seat and drags his hands across Sam's back a few times before pulling him to his feet and sitting him down on scalding leather. Sam's head goes straight back to rest on the back of the seat, his chest heaving in accordance with each gasp. His gaze wanders restlessly for a bit before his eyes shut.

Jogging to the back of the Impala, Dean takes one of the few water bottles out and uncaps the lid. He takes a few swallows of it before nudging it at Sam's chin, prompting his brother to drink.

He tips it a little so the semi-cool water spills into Sam's mouth. Dean watches his brother's throat work for a few seconds before Sam claws at the bottle, grabbing at it to drink faster.

"Whoah, man, slow down," Dean chastises, taking the bottle away, "if you want it, you gotta promise to drink nice and slow. Don't wanna be chucking it all up again."

Sam closes his eyes again almost in frustration, but nods. His breath hitches. Dean sighs, gives Sam the bottle, and heads over to the driver's side, grabbing another bottle and closing the trunk on the way.

He keys the engine, but instead of starting, the car coughs and hacks and then settles back down. He scrubs a hand over his face. (Goddamn it.)

Sam's got heatstroke and he needs to speed to town and the car won't start.

(God_damn_ it.)

"Okay, Sammy. I'm gonna check the engine. You sit tight." He doesn't know why he bothers; Sam's not listening. He's staring at the empty water bottle like it just shot a puppy. Dean hands him the other bottle and gets out.

He opens the hood, though he's already certain what the problem is; the car overheated. First his phone, then his brother, now his car. What next, his goddamn shoes?

Dean goes back to the trunk, stares into the cooler. Four water bottles left and a bunch of half-cool water, salty from sweat. Dean has a sudden moment of indecision- help the car or help his brother? He steps back, panicked, head flying to the man in the passenger seat and then to the engine in the front. He has a brief selfish thought— (Why do I have to be the one to deal with this?) And then it's gone, and he leaps into action, going to Sam, who lets out a long moan.

Sam is hardly coherent, but he looks up at Dean confusedly, eyes squinting and mouth open. Dean takes the empty water bottle that Sam's dropped from the floor of the car, and uses wide steps to get to the trunk. The bottle is dipped into the cool, sweaty water in the ice chest, and then Dean's back at the engine, pouring the bottle's contents into the radiator. Not so silently, not so politely, he prays for this to work. He doesn't want to think about what he'll do if it doesn't. He makes a handful more trips between the front and the back of the Impala before Sam's wheezes and cries pull him from his task. He drops the bottle, caps the lid on the radiator, and slams the hood. He goes to his brother.

He's not perfectly versed in the details of heatstroke, but he knows enough to try. Which means first taking off Sam's shirt. Its not as easy as it looks, he discovers, and he meets resistance against the clinging garment and Sam's erratic behavior. He manages. Then he's back to the trunk, grabbing another bottle to thrust into Sam's clawing hands. He takes it back temporarily when he realizes Sam can't open it.

Disregarding his own weariness (and probably heat exhaustion, at that) he grabs the last water bottles for when Sam finishes the next one and closes the trunk. Soon enough he's in the front seat again, key in the ignition, and his grip is so tight the metal almost breaks skin. Dean twists the key—

Nothing happens.

He almost drops dead on the spot. He tries again, again, again. The engine spits and goes back to its damned silence.

His heart is pounding, he's ready to go into full on panic mode, he's ready to start swinging at something and break something and throttle the goddamn life out of something and watch it grow unresponsive and cold and envy its lack of warmth when _finally_ the engine roars to life and the Impala starts its sputtering but consistent hum. Dean crows out in victory, slaps the steering wheel half in appreciation and half chastising. He turns on the AC— he's not sure how much good it'll do for his brother but it's better than nothing.

Sam slumps down in the seat, already finished with the water, though most of it looks like it had missed his mouth. Dean opens another bottle for him, then swings the wheel around and hammers the gas. He's afraid, so damn afraid that the car'll just stop again, he feels like he's going to throw up. (Part of that may be the heat, he knows.)

As if reading his mind, Sam starts to gag, forcing a curse out of Dean (shit, shoulda been watching to see if he was drinking it too fast) and he leans over to push Sam forwards. He winces as all the water comes back out of Sam's mouth and sloshes over his shoes and the floor. Sam stays huddled against his knees, a string of watery spit hanging from his lip. His eyes are closed. Dean stares for a moment before pushing down harder on the pedal, and he tries to think about anything but the clear puddle of puke in his car but God there is a clear puddle of puke in his car and it's probably being soaked into the carpet at this very moment and hasn't his baby suffered enough abuse today already?

He makes it to Winslow in record time— no surprise. No surprise as well that the shitty town doesn't have a hospital, so Dean goes straight back to their motel. He's not sure if Sam's just... something, or passed out, because he hasn't heard much from him. All the water had been spent before they got into town.

He parks carelessly, and gets out, close to ripping the doors off with his rush. He grabs Sam by his bare shoulders and pulls him out groaning and moaning, making quick work of the door. He dumps Sam on the bed, goes back outside, and turns off the car and takes out the key as an afterthought. He's back in the room with a bucket of ice from the machine a ways down from their door, setting it down at the foot of the empty bed. Sam's twisting on top of the sheets of the other bed, and he looks about to cry, not sure whether to curl up or spread out or just give up. His hair is flung every which way, and for a fleeting moment Dean's faced with a boy who can't realize the world inside or outside of his own temporarily overheated head. For a fleeting moment, Dean's just a stranger, met with an insurmountable hill. For a fleeting moment, Dean doesn't do anything.

And then he does. He goes into the bathroom and starts the tub, making sure the water is cool. He rushes to the fridge and grabs some water bottles, setting them on the floor. He goes to Sam and starts to unbuckle his belt. Being met with a disturbing lack of resistance, he pulls off Sam's soggy jeans and boxers and starts to pull him across the carpet, into the bathroom, into the tub. Sam doesn't fight— Dean wishes he does, but the practically dead weight in his arms isn't much of a help either.

After getting Sam in the tub safely, Dean gets a bout of vertigo, quickly followed by nausea, and he has the audacity to think of himself for a moment, taking a water bottle from the floor and taking big but slow gulps. It feels like heaven, and he hasn't felt relief like this since the first time he soaked his shirt in the ice chest. Then guilt washes over him and he returns his attention to Sam.

His little brother is a mess, generally speaking. He looks a little better, but Dean doesn't think there's much improvement after hearing him mutter _more logical to just go back to town, Dean, get someone to fix the God I can't I can't, oh my God_ so Dean opts to pour some water over his shoulders and head, aiming on cooling him down and shutting him up. It works a bit- Sam moans out a _Jess_ and then is quiet, leaving Dean (_aching_) to go out and grab the ice bucket that had sat neglected outside the bathroom. He dumps about a third of it into the tub with Sam and wraps a few in a discarded t-shirt— he settles it against his brother's forehead for a moment, then moves it across his jaw and shoulders and neck and under his arms. He's not sure what else he should do so he just stares at Sam's face and looks for change.

"Sam?" He lets out, the word cutting the silence and awkwardly revealing the worry in his voice. No answer, of course. Sam isn't moving much, his eyes closed, but his mouth is still open and taking ragged breaths.

God, what had he been _thinking_, taking himself and Sam out here to do this hunt, being ignorant to so much of the job and so much of his brother? Guilt and self-loathing consumes him and his jaw clenches— He should have seen the signs earlier. He should have skipped this hunt. He should have steered clear of anything in the west. (He should have talked to Sam more about his sleep, about his eating, about Jess.) But he hadn't, and now Sam had to pay for his neglect by suffering from this goddamn heat and his goddamn brother. Sam, who had had done nothing but work for the last week, who had never been able to handle the heat very well, who is— is— breathing normally.

Dean settles down a little, and turns his focus outward again. Sam's breathing regularly and— how long has it been since Dean put him in the tub? At least half an hour. More than that.

"Sammy?" Dean tries again, and it's still silent.

But then Sam opens his eyes.

Dean breaks out into a grin and lifts the melting, cloth-covered ice from his cheek, barely noticing his hand had gone numb. His heart starts to hammer again, but not so much in worry this time.

"Hey, hey Sam. You uh, you scared me for a while there." Sam stares right back at him, and he'd like to believe that there's awareness in there. Sam takes a deep breath through his nose, shivers a little, and opens his mouth just a bit.

"We finish the hunt?" His voice is still dry and probably sore from coughing and puking. It's the best sound Dean's heard in hours.

"Hunts done, Sammy," he breaths out, and he's not sure what else to add to that— "You okay?" He finally tacks on. Because he hasn't asked in a while (and gotten a reply, at least).

Sam nods immediately which tells Dean he hadn't thought for a second if he was actually okay. "Yeah, me too," Dean agrees. _Takes one to know one_, he thinks, and Sam is probably thinking the same thing too. "How do you feel?" (Which usually fares better than the other question.) Sam responds somewhat truthfully.

"Thirsty," he pauses a second, "and cold. And wet. And naked."

"Sounds about right," Dean snorts out, and stands up, grabbing a towel off the rack. He offers a hand to his brother, who clasps it a bit awkwardly, and hauls him up. Water falls everywhere, leaving the tiles beneath them slippery and clammy. Dean hands Sam the towel, who slips it around his waste, and grabs another one to start drying him off. Sam keeps a hand on the towel around his hips and the other on Dean's shoulder. He's hunched slightly, implying that he's still a little queasy and probably more than a little weak. Dean takes note not to jostle his head too much while he dries it off.

"_Are_ you okay?" Sam interrupts the quiet, peering up with a now pink and peeling face.

"Yeah," Dean states after some hesitation. He thinks he's mostly telling the truth, which is something. (_So goddamn terrified, Sammy. We're always too reckless. Sometimes wish you'd just..._)

Sam wrinkles up his nose, a faint expression of disgust settling on his features. "You smell like a gallon of sweat, Dean. You should shower." Dean smiles, helps him hobble slowly to his bed, and watches Sam collapse on his back, the towel being the only thing on him. His feet hang off the edge a few inches. Dean spies him staring at the ceiling, letting out huge huffs of air but not quite going to sleep.

He turns the thermostat down and places an unopened water bottle next to Sam, figuring he'll be passed out before Dean even finishes rinsing off. Sam's still got a long way to recovery— from heatstroke, as well as the loss of his girlfriend. And as much as Dean doesn't want, but _needs _to talk about it, he knows they won't be doing it today or tonight. He'll pay the extra fee of staying another night, they'll put Arizona in their rear-view mirrors, find some hunt in the northeast, and then maybe they'll talk. About everything. But not 'til then. All Dean is going to do before that is keep the temperature low and watch after Sam.

They won't be returning to the west for a long while, and Dean doesn't feel bad about that at all. Not one bit. (Goddamn heat.)


End file.
